


i'm still the only one

by renlyne



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, I Wanted To Tag This Hurt/Comfort But Basically It’s Just Hurt And The Author Wants Comfort, Semi-requited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-03 13:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13341768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renlyne/pseuds/renlyne
Summary: Harry breaks everyone’s heart, one way or another.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [I'm Still The Only One](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14105277) by [letztenbrief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/letztenbrief/pseuds/letztenbrief)



> With my eternal gratitude to Jiksa, for being the best beta I could ever have asked for.

  
  


It was stupid of her, not to see it.

And she was a lot of things — stung by comments about her naivety, her neurosis, her inability to have any sort of successful relationship, embarrassed that they all struck slightly too close to home — but she wasn’t stupid.

Yet she’d ended up here, shocked by the obvious truth.

It was always the simplest statements that gouged the deepest, this time dropped like bombs in a casual, almost laughing tone.

 _It just makes no sense to me,_ he’d mused, _why everyone has to, like, take everything so seriously. Pick one person, and make them the centre of everything._ He’d stretched, buried his toes in the sand, hadn’t glanced her way, else he likely would have stopped talking at the look on her face. _Don’t people want, like, friends? I mean, we have our whole lives, our_ whole lives _, and people are already planning forever, shut in a little,_ he’d waved his hand vaguely, _like, box, or whatever. Giving all their time to one— I mean, think of everyone we’re going to get the chance to meet. Especially us, yeah? Can you imagine not wanting to experience that, everything on offer?_  

It would have made a good tragedy, or shakespearean comedy. A boy sitting in the sand innocently shielding his eyes from the sun, no idea the effect he was having on the girl lying beside him. Dramatic irony: when the audience knew a key piece of information that a character in the story did not.

She’d fit the bill of an audience, she thought. Felt a bit removed from herself, watching him shatter the dreams she hadn’t realised she’d been harbouring about the two of them. Conversationally demolish her hopes for their future, she could phrase it, if she wanted to be dramatic.

She wanted to be dramatic.

There was a part of her that couldn’t believe it was happening.

Again. So soon after the last time. With such clear ignorance on his part. Take your pick.

Another part of her hoping that maybe she’d misunderstood the sentiment, the fundamental belief, behind what he was saying.

And then there was the part of her that was drinking in the sights, how the blue of her dress matched the ocean, the feeling of the breeze and the sunshine and the smell of salt in the air — cataloguing absolutely everything she could about that exact moment, knowing even then that she was going to be drawing on it as inspiration for years to come.  

Because Taylor Swift was a lot of things — naive, neurotic, constantly falling for boys who didn't want her the way she wanted them — but she wasn’t stupid.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


It was a fucking ridiculous conversation.

It was ridiculous, and if either one of them had been a little less tired, or a little less pissed, it would never have even begun.

As it was, they were both exactly that tired, and exactly that pissed, and Harry was ignoring all of them _again_ in favour of murmuring nonsense into his phone. Not that bus rides were always one big happy sleepover, but the rest of them were spread around the couch watching Liam and Niall fail equally at FIFA, and it wouldn’t have taken much for Harry to angle his chair and at least pretend to join them. For fuck’s sake, even Zayn had ventured out from his bunk, leaning against the wall propped on a pillow he’d stolen from god knows where.

“Something important, Hazza?” he snapped, almost wincing at the acid in his tone.

Almost, but not quite.

Harry looked over, brow slightly furrowed, slurring, “Can you hang on just a sec?” into the phone like Louis was some nuisance to be quickly taken care of. “What?” he aimed in Louis’ direction, having the gall to sound confused.

“I said, is that something important? Because the rest of us are talking, and you’re the one always banging on about family bonding,” he all but spat the last two words, “so it might be nice not to completely fucking ignore it when it’s happening.”

For a second, Harry looked like he didn’t understand what Louis was saying, but then his eyes were narrowing slightly and he warned, “It is, actually. Important.”

Louis’ hands were almost shaking, he realised a bit distantly, which. Fuck. He needed a cigarette. He ignored the look Niall and Liam were exchanging, the fixed lock of Zayn’s gaze on the screen. “More important than—” he cut off, debated standing before his stomach rolled and he decided against it. “The fuck, Haz?” He sounded vicious. He knew he sounded vicious, almost made the effort to reel it in. (Almost, but not quite.) “Since when is anyone more important to you than—” He broke off again, so even he would never know exactly how he might have finished that sentence. _Us_ , hopefully.

And Harry just…looked at him, the slightest jump in his cheek the only crack in an otherwise blank expression. Didn’t say _“How’s El, Louis?”_ , but the unfortunate part of knowing him so well was that Louis heard it loud and clear regardless.

There was a part of him that thought maybe that wasn’t fair, that throwing something back in his face wasn’t Harry’s style, no matter how justified. That maybe he’d looked a bit more bewildered or hurt than anything.

It wasn’t a large part, and it got even smaller when Harry eventually just turned away and went back to his call.

Louis had never been particularly fair.

The sober part of him was whispering that Harry had every right to be murmuring into his phone. That he’d had to watch Louis and Liam and Zayn do the exact same thing so many times, and that even if he hadn’t, it was a fucking phone call, and the sky wasn’t falling.

It was, though. At least a bit.

Because Harry wasn’t talking to a girlfriend. Harry didn’t get that way with girlfriends, never got attached enough to let them take any sort of priority over the time he spent with the lads.

No, Harry was giggling drunkenly over the phone about how _it wasn’t a big enough dog to have three names_ , and _yes, he knew it had been half a year but this was still a valid concern_ , and _it doesn’t work to just shorten it to Puppy, what about when she isn’t a puppy anymore?_

And the whole thing was just — it was fucking obnoxious. Same as the person he was talking to, the person Louis had _known_ he was talking to by Harry’s tone alone, even before they’d mentioned his stupid fucking dog.

Not that it was the dog’s fault she had a wankery hipster name, or a clingy and irresponsible owner, or had Harry buying fucking dog treats and toys with the letter P stitched on the front from everywhere they stopped on tour.

It wasn’t the dog’s fault, but. Fuck it.

Louis had never been particularly fair.  

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


He’d told him once, in yet another indistinguishable hotel room, long past when they both should have been asleep. And it hadn’t been pretty and it hadn’t been articulate, but Zayn had told him, so Harry knew.

In hindsight, he was never quite sure why he’d chosen Harry — Harry, who was so perfectly controlled, so determined not to flash his cards or let anything slip past his smirk, who was arguably the worst person he could have gone to for sympathy. By all rights it should have been Louis, who would have gone soft and quiet, wrapped an arm around his shoulder and taken him to the roof to smoke and watch the city lights, Do Not Enter signs be damned.

It should have been Louis who heard whatever choked out apology he’d mustered, trying to explain why he hadn’t been able to make the meeting, the rehearsal, whatever else he’d missed that day. How impossible it had been to open his messages when the little red circle kept showing increasingly higher numbers. How he was so sorry, but he just, he couldn’t fucking sleep until he was sleeping, and then he couldn’t fucking get up again, and if only he didn’t feel so disgusting after he ate, he would probably have had a bit more energy, and how did people fucking _do this_ —

It should have been Louis, but it hadn’t been.

It had been Harry — Harry, who’d been the one brave enough to say that they needed a break, who’d known how Louis was going to react and suggested it anyways. Who deserved to know how much Zayn needed the light at the end of the tunnel that Harry had set his jaw and taken so much shit for. Who maybe wouldn’t pity him, would maybe understand needing to keep things close to the vest.

Harry, who had looked sad and vaguely warm, who had hugged him tightly, but who had said “Zayn, man, I get that you’re struggling, and I’m so—I’m so sorry. But, you’ve got to,” a breath, “we need you to pull it together. We need you, and. Not like this.”

He’d said it softly, in a way that meant he probably hadn’t intended his words to destroy.

In hindsight, Zayn was never quite sure why he hadn’t said “if you think I don’t know that, if you think I wouldn’t give anything to be able to _pull it together_ , then you clearly do not get that I'm struggling.” Why he couldn’t find the words.

Then again, he could never find the words.

He’d tried to find them for Harry though, so Harry had known. Must have known what it cost him to say out loud, but even beyond that, must have known just how much everything was strangling him. (Must have known, but clearly didn’t understand.)

He’d thought even at the time that it was quite something, the way Harry could hear without really _hearing,_ could grasp enough to respond without really understanding. How it would have been impressive, if it wasn’t so shattering.

It was an echo of the same thought that occurred to him years later, face to face on the fucking red carpet, cameras everywhere, the worst possible moment for a reunion. Harry was wearing custom Gucci, of course, had just finished a second solo tour while Zayn had never even dared to attempt a first. And he thought again that it was almost impressive, the way that Harry could look at him without really _looking_ , somehow interact without really acknowledging his presence, make his polite _good to see you_ into such an obvious _I still don’t forgive you_.

And it was all a bit shattering all over again, because Harry knew. He’d tried so hard to find the words for him, once upon a time, and Harry knew, he _knew_ , so how was it possible that he still didn’t understand, that he still meant _I don’t forgive you_. He’d heard without understanding, or understood but hadn’t extrapolated, or taken it as an off day and not Zayn’s entire fucking life.

(Or maybe he had understood after all and still couldn’t forgive him, and god, but wouldn’t that have been the worst one of all.)

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


It wasn’t even a good story.

Which obviously wasn’t a major source of Nick’s grief, but it did seem like one more injustice, another _fuck you_ from the universe.

It didn’t have the drama of slamming doors or hung up phone calls or crockery smashing after it sailed across the kitchen. It didn’t have the humour of some of his previous interpersonal disasters masquerading as relationships. No one would laugh, if he told the story on the radio. It was just sad, and then it was over.

Not that he could have relayed the story on the airwaves, even if he’d wanted to. Impossible to tell a story that doesn’t exist. To talk about messages that stopped coming, dinner reservations that weren’t made, movie nights that weren’t scheduled, regardless of the plethora of pap shots at Heathrow proving that certain YSL boots were back on British soil.

And it was fine, because Nick had never held the illusions that so much of the internet seemed convinced he lived by. He'd never thought that he was going to hold Harry's attention indefinitely, not when Harry was so loved, had every door in the world open and beckoning for him to come in.

But—

Just as recompense for those hints, those moments of such connection, such togetherness, when he’d forgotten himself and thought that _maybe, just maybe_ — for all the mind-fuckery of those moments, there should have somehow been more.

For the phone calls that had stretched hours in the middle of the night, the leather holdalls that had been a near permanent fixture in his front hall whenever Harry had had the slightest break from tour, the mountain of dog toys in his living room of which Nick had bought exactly three, the one-of-a-kind invitation to _enjoy_ that Harry had ‘thought he might like’, the key to his flat that Harry had twisted onto his keychain literal weeks after they’d gotten close.

For everything they’d once had, this drifting — the slow reclassification from someone who always got an immediate response, to someone Harry would reply to when he could find the time, to someone who Harry texted every few months to _see how he was doing_ — it wasn’t enough.

Not that he wanted smashing plates or screaming phone calls or the reverberating bang of a slamming door, but—

For everything they’d once had, Nick thought that he at least deserved a good story.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


It was a bit strange, Gemma thought, that she could be so out of touch with her emotions. Not that it was uncommon, generally, to be unable to label every feeling, but for someone so introspective, so used to analyzing and writing down and categorizing, she saw it as a rather unwelcome change.

She wasn’t angry, was the thing.

She wasn’t angry, but her throat felt tight, and her back teeth were pressing together, and there was pressure behind her eyes.

“LA?” Her voice wasn’t as sharp as she’d feared it might be, more flat than biting.

There was silence down the line for a beat though, so maybe flat had been too much to hope for.

“Gem, I’m—I don’t mean to, like,” he stopped for a breath, and Gemma closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, I am. But I can’t—”

She swallowed carefully. “It’s the first Christmas, Harry.”

“I know that. I know.” His voice was soft, and Gemma thought that this wasn’t how siblings usually argued.

She bit her lip, probably smeared lipstick all over her teeth.

It was almost funny, she thought. An author, out of words.

Harry eventually went on in her stead. “I can’t do it, Gem. I can’t,” a breath, “this is my only time off. I can’t spend it sitting around the house with a—” he broke off, but she heard it anyways: _with a ghost_. She understood, which somehow made it worse. “I can’t sit around an empty house, not after this year. I just, I need to go h—” he cut himself off for the second time in as many minutes, redirected whatever he was saying in that way of his where he strung three thoughts together and called it a sentence.  

She should have teased him for it, for his inability to say anything grammatically correct. Don’t skip your A-levels, kids.

She didn’t.

She was a bit busy, stifling the sob that had wrenched itself free from absolutely fucking nowhere. She never cried like this, out of the blue and immediately clawing at her throat.

Which—

 _Oh_ , she thought, with a hollow sort of clarity.  

Oh.   

She should have recognized it, Gemma distantly berated herself, over the sounds of Harry still talking. He was saying something about the sunshine, about the Azoffs, about James Corden’s baby. It sounded like white noise, indistinguishable over the beat of her heart.

_I just, I need to go home._

To LA.

Her throat was burning. She needed to get off the phone. She needed to get off the phone _now_ , before she started screaming about her nuclear family always capping off at a maximum of three.

Her, Mum, and Dad.

Her, Harry, and Mum.

Her, Mum, and Robin.

And now her, Mum, and Michal.

Screaming about how there was room for four, in this place that she thought of as their home, even if he apparently didn’t think of it as his. How she always loved more than just the little group of people that were left, and wouldn’t it have been something if that had ever mattered.

How ridiculous she’d been, to think that the few months before his tour had been a sign of things to come. Had been anything other than him saying goodbye. How ridiculous she’d been before that, to think that they’d get to play happy families once the band went their separate ways.

How funny, she thought uncharitably, that it was never her boyfriends who had her throat burning, her teeth desperately clenched, and the weight of the world pounding at her temples.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


“Was it worth it?”

Someone would ask, years and years down the line. And Harry would wait for a moment, mind flashing through the faces of the people he’d hurt, and the ones who’d hurt him, the people that living this dream had cost him. The friendships that had ended, the relationships over too soon, the family dinners and birthdays and anniversaries and shopping sprees and board game nights that he’d missed. The way this life had shaped him into someone so different than he might have been.

The adrenaline rushes and the packed arenas screaming his name, the music he’d made, the people he’d met, the years when he’d felt closer to his band than he’d ever thought was possible. London, and LA, and Asia, and South America, and entire stadiums of people pouring love onto each other in front of him at his behest, thousands across the planet wearing t-shirts asking everyone around them to _treat people with kindness_. Rainbow flags thrown on stage, the first time he’d heard What Makes You Beautiful on the radio. The first time he’d heard Sign of the Times.

He’d swallow, refuse to break eye contact, and prepare to answer steadily, directly, almost savagely.

Had it been worth it?

He’d swallow again.

Wait just long enough for it to seem like he might not respond, watch the sympathy settle onto their face as they anticipated his answer. And then he’d open his mouth, and his voice wouldn’t shake when he said:  
  
  
  


“Yes.”

 

 

 

 


	2. The chatfic Harry POV nobody asked for

 

 

Harry sitting on a beach with the girl he's been seeing for the past few months, and she mentions someone they both know getting married, and he thinks "god, can you imagine anything worse" and just kind of responds with whatever's running through his head, because it's right to be honest, it's good.

 

*

 

Harry, who never made a thing of it when Louis had a very 19-year-old-lad sort of freak out after they got far too drunk one time and were messily all over each other. Didn’t break down after listening to the entirety of the “this thing that the fans made up about us? It was funny, but like, we need to fucking stop with all the pretending or people are going to start believing it. Important people, not twelve year old girls on the internet, god what a fucking disaster” rant, but thought that oh, maybe this was what’s wrong with being honest.

Who pasted on a smile when Eleanor was suddenly everywhere. Didn’t let anything show on his face when Louis’ worldview shifted a bit, and he watched as hierarchies were neatly rearranged, him shuffled from _most important person_ to _best friend_.

Who thought that if you love someone, then you’re happy that they’re happy, and you give them some space to be happy without bleeding pathetic and rabid jealousy all over them. And if you meet someone else who makes _you_ happy, such an incredible person, such an incredible friend, (such an incredible maybe-more,) well then you hang on fucking tight no matter how much the jealousy you get in return feels disgustingly close to a victory. You ignore that almost-triumph and you fucking treasure this miracle no matter how it makes anyone else feel. 

Because that person you love? Well, they’ve fucking taken enough already. 

 

*

 

Harry looking at his band, his brothers, at the state that Zayn and Liam are both in, at Niall having more and more frequent panic attacks, and thinking _god, fuck this_. Stewing in it for a while, thinking that things can only really get better from here, and being continually proven wrong because, wow, no, apparently they can get a whole lot worse. And finally fucking having had enough, because truly he can count Zayn’s ribs and they’re going through entire bottles of concealer and Liam, _Liam_ , is saying things he can’t possibly mean about himself, and Jesus fucking Christ but enough is enough.

And sitting them down and telling them so, and Louis flying off the fucking handle like Harry had known he would, looking so angry and so betrayed and like he wanted to punch a hole through an entire fucking building because this world that he finally, _finally_ , felt comfortable in was falling apart at the seams and a wall wouldn’t have been enough. Harry hearing that he was abandoning them, how of course he was the one to suggest that they go their separate ways, and thinking _fuck you, honestly_ and for the first time -- the first time in five years -- really and truly meaning it.

Saying nothing, because really, what was there to say.

Thinking maybe he’d fixed it, found a way to keep his family together. Taken that look of utter abandonment from Louis, blankness from Zayn, if-that’s-how-you-really-feel from Liam, resignation from Niall, and thought, it’s okay. It’s worth it, because this is how the family stays together. They can blame me, and it’s fine, because we’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay individually, and the band is going to be okay, and we won’t have let anyone down. These people who have given us so much love, so much support, so much devotion, we won’t let them down. And we’ll get to rest, we’ll get to rest and then we’ll get to come back and they can blame me and it’s fine, because if we can just keep it together for a few more months, then this family is going to be okay. 

Just keep it together for a few more months, and it’s going to be okay. They can blame me. Louis can sit on opposite ends of the couch, can avoid eye contact for entire days, can say three words to me in a week, and it’s _okay_ , it’s okay, because it was for a reason. It was for Zayn, for Liam, for Niall. So that this family can stay together, can be okay. 

And then of course it was for nothing, because why would Zayn stay for a few more months when he could leave in the middle of a tour, take this fractured family and find the weak point and _push_ , watch as it shatters into dust. 

And you see each other again and it’s been _years_ and your brain says you’re over it, that you understand, that all you ever wanted was for everyone to be okay.

And your heart says: _you’re dreaming_.

 

*

 

Harry on the phone with his sister after the worst fucking year and feeling so guilty that it was also the best fucking year in some ways, wondering how he can be happy when someone so important is gone. Wondering how he can face his mum when he missed so many chances to spend time with Robin, was gone for so many of the years that Robin was there. Not that it was his fault, but how -- how _revolting_ of him, that he’s looking at their grief, Mum’s and Gemma’s, and can’t match it, can’t muster the same level of sorrow for this incredible man that he would have felt so much closer to, if life had taken almost any other path. 

How disgusting of him, to miss him, but not like that, not to the extent that he could see Mum and Gem missing him, not to the extent that Robin deserved. How unbearable it would be, to sit in Robin’s house and look at this home he’d built for them, the one Harry had left at 16 and never looked back at. How unworthy he would be of processing his grief in the company of those who had so much more of a claim to it. 

How much he could not fucking step foot in that house. The house that should have felt like home. 

Should have, but didn’t. 

How he absolutely could not do it, spend his holidays there, come off a fucking gruelling tour schedule and then flagellate himself for three entire months before throwing himself back on stage. How the Azoffs were inviting him over, passing him around for hugs and saying that he was practically another son anyways, won’t he come stay with them. How James had just had a baby and wanted Harry to see her and wouldn’t that be something, to spend time with new life and possibility instead of with a ghost. 

How he had the choice of sunshine or rain, of a place that had felt like home the moment he stepped off the plane at 16 and the place he was running away from, and god was he ever going to hell, but how really it wasn’t much of a choice at all.

 

*

 

Harry, who has never been as oblivious as he looks. Who can flick back through all of this on demand and replay it all.

(And who breaks his own fucking heart, because god, but he’d do it all again.)

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> come cry with me on [tumblr](http://daretomarvel.tumblr.com/) ♡
> 
> reviews are ambrosia for the soul


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